


see I don't understand how (you're number one)

by rain_sleet_snow



Series: heaven for the climate, but hell for the company [1]
Category: Primeval
Genre: Accidental Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2012-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 19:36:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3220898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_sleet_snow/pseuds/rain_sleet_snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This wasn't precisely meant to happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	see I don't understand how (you're number one)

**Author's Note:**

> Set approx Feb 2005-May 2006. Claire & Ditzy backstory. Ditzy is Fred’s medic OC, Claire’s his longsuffering girlfriend and belongs to lukadreaming. The title and the quote come from a song by (I think, but I could be wrong) Tinchy Stryder, called, unsurprisingly, Number 1. Fluff and cheese galore, do make sure to brush your teeth afterwards. 
> 
>  
> 
> See I don’t understand how you’re number one./When it was just a fling before, now, you’re the one.

            “You are so staring,” Imogene informs her, and Claire wrenches her eyes away from the guy on the other side of the bar.

 

            “Fuck it, so what if I am?” she retorts, and Harriet laughs out loud.

 

            “Get in, girl,” Harriet says, broad grin and blue hair matching and clashing. (It’s lucky she teaches at a self-styled liberal sixth-form college, devoting itself to – according to the admissions literature – the personal growth and creativity of its pupils.) “Seriously – have you got any since you threw Jeremy out?”  


            “Got any?” and “That tosspot?” Imogene and Claire say at the same time, and Imogene beats Claire to the punch the second time, pointing out that Jeremy, being a limp-dicked arsehole, doesn’t count.

 

            “Oh God,” Claire says, burying her face in her hands. “You swore there would be no discussion of my sex life.”

 

            “I came down from Edinburgh for this discussion,” Imogene tells her. “The least you can do is give me the juicy details.”

 

            “There _are_ no juicy details,” Claire tries. “I mean. I only broke up with Jerry –“

 

            “- nearly a year ago,” Harriet says sharply. “And the fucker won’t leave you alone. You need to show him he’s not welcome.”

 

            “How?” Claire demands. “Machete? Scientology? Agent Orange? _Satanic lesbian orgy_?” She flails a little as she makes these points, and consequently nearly knocks over the second rum and coke of the night, which she... didn’t order.

 

            She gapes slightly at the barmaid holding the tray out to her, a pretty Asian girl who’s getting more irritable by the minute. “Um. I didn’t order that.”

 

            “I know,” the barmaid says, and nods over at the guy on the other side of the room, who’s watching. He gives her a crooked smile, and – okay, so being bought drinks by strange men isn’t the worst thing in the world, not if they smile like that. “He did. For the gorgeous blonde with the curls, apparently. I made it, there’s nothing in it, don’t worry.”

 

            “I... wasn’t worrying,” Claire says, rather dazedly, and looks back at her mates.

 

            Imogene and Harriet give her identically filthy grins. There’s a reason why Claire never stays over at Imogene’s when Harriet’s there these days; it’s hard to sleep through that kind of noise, and she doesn’t need reminding that other people are having great sex when she isn’t. When she hasn’t had anything resembling satisfaction for four years now, and when Jeremy bored her half to death most of the time and spent the remainder trying to clip her wings, trying to turn her into _Claire Bradley Bowles_ with three kids, a Labrador, a Land Rover, no job and no life. She doesn’t care that much usually, although she does miss just having someone about, but she’s drunk and Imogene and Harriet are flirting and someone is flirting with her. It’s sort of at the forefront of her mind.

 

            “Do you want the drink or not?” the barmaid says.

 

            “Fuck yes,” Claire says, and digs a fiver and a broken biro out of her purse. She scribbles her name on a napkin, and hands it and the fiver to the barmaid. “His next drink’s on me. And the change is yours.”

 

            “Anything to smooth the course of true lust,” the barmaid says, without moving a facial muscle. “Just don’t shag in the bogs.”

 

            “I might change my mind about that tip,” Claire threatens, but not very seriously.

 

            The barmaid just grins. “Have fun. He comes here a lot, and I’ve never seen him buy a drink for anyone else, except rounds like usual.”

 

            “Huh,” Claire says, and feels a bit flattered.

 

 

            By the time her rum and coke is finished, she’s warm all over, and not entirely surprised when someone comes up behind her and taps her on the shoulder. She turns around and it’s the guy from across the room, and wow, he’s even more massive up close. Those _arms_.

 

            “I thought I’d better deliver this one in person,” he says, and sets a rum and coke down on the table in front of her, along with a surprisingly sweet smile. “Claire.”

 

            “Nice to meet you,” Claire says, taking a gulp of the drink and letting her voice linger for a while, and he supplies the missing name: “David.”

 

            He glances at Harriet and Imogene. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your night with your friends.”

 

            “Oh, don’t worry about us,” Imogene drawls, flapping a hand. As well she might, given that Harriet is in her lap. “You two get cosy.”

 

            “Oh, jesus,” Claire says feelingly, taking another large drink. “Okay, you two have a great night. David and I are going to find a cup of coffee, because I need to sober up, and because I want to... talk to him.”

 

            She only paused so she could look at him, to gauge the effect of her words, but as Harriet and Imogene burst into laughter she realises what it sounded like, and blushes.

 

            “Fine by me,” David says, and he sounds amused but not mocking, and – yes, he’ll do. “There’s a greasy spoon on the corner. Not the best coffee, but always open.”

 

            “Fine by me,” Claire echoes.

 

           

            The greasy spoon is indeed manky, and so is its coffee. Claire is just drunk enough, and just horny enough, not to give a shit. David’s even nicer to look at in the brighter lights of the café – warm brown eyes and a wide mouth and competent hands.

 

            Claire takes a massive gulp of her scalding hot coffee, and swallows it down, feeling it burn her throat. “So,” she says, when she’s recovered enough to talk. “Claire. Twenty-five. Teacher. Single. You?”

 

            He grins, and parrots back to her: “David. Twenty-six. Soldier. Single.”

 

            She tilts her head to one side. “Soldier? What regiment?”

 

            Shutters go down behind his eyes, and he’s clearly thinking about how to approach the question, and Claire grew up close enough to Catterick to understand that look.

 

            “ _Oh_.”

 

            He grins, slightly less confidently. “Not a deal-breaker, I hope.”

           

She leans back in her chair and gives him a slow once-over; he catches his breath, and his brown eyes spark. Her smile is deliberately sultry. “I can think of worse.  Just-”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Can I borrow your driving licence a second?” She winces at the way it sounds. Smooth, Bradley.

 

He hands it over without a murmur; she texts the licence number and his full name to Harriet as quickly as she can, then hands it back.

 

“Smart precaution,” he says calmly and without judgement, tucking it away. “Long practice?”

 

“For the prevention of Harriet getting into a pickle,” she says dryly, hoping he didn’t think she was a slag. “You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to lose a woman with blue hair in Cardiff.”

 

“Try me,” David says, and stands up. “Yours or mine?”

 

“Mine,” Claire says. She wants to exorcise Jeremy’s ghosts, and if it feels unfair to be using David to do it, well – it’s not the worst thing she’s ever done. 

 

David’s hand is hot and steady on her lower back all the way home, and Claire can’t stop sneaking looks at him and grinning. As she opens the door to her flat, ushers him in, and locks the door behind her, she’s almost breathless, something’s tingling in the pit of her stomach, and she’s biting her lower lip to hold back the grin threatening to split her face in half. David’s toed off his shoes in the ten seconds she wasn’t looking at him, and his eyes are riveted to her, pupils blown wide, a reckless smile hovering around that wide, friendly mouth.

 

“Right then, David,” she says softly, and he reaches out to her, drawing her in slowly, taking his time.

 

“Right then, Claire,” he says back to her, just as softly, and then his mouth is on hers and his arms tight around her waist and hips, boosting her up so she can wrap her legs around his waist, and oh god she _wants_ him.

 

“Bedroom,” he says into her ear, having teased her hair out of its clip and got a handful of it. “Where?”

 

“Uh,” Claire murmurs, and her eyes actually cross as he sucks on the tender skin just behind her ear. “Second on the left.”

 

He swings her up into his arms, like a princess or something, and she yelps and winds her arms around his neck, which gets her a low, amused chuckle and him a bite to his lower lip which just makes him gasp and moan, and Claire isn’t thinking about Jeremy now. Oh no, she isn’t.

 

 

Claire wakes up because the doorbell is ringing. She wakes up draped over a man with more muscles than is strictly believable, a friendly face, and – if her memory is to be trusted - the name David. She also wakes up with a hangover.

 

David groans, and squeezes his eyes shut, settling his arms more comfortably around her.

 

The doorbell rings again, setting off sparks of pain behind her eyes.

 

“Fuck. Off,” David says quite clearly, burying his face in her hair. Claire remembers last night very clearly, and he likes her hair, likes getting his hands into it and messing with it, and she likes that.

 

The doorbell, however, is not going away. She stirs. “I’ll go deliver that message in person,” she tells David, and slithers out of his arms with some difficulty. Pausing to admire him – she has fucking _excellent_ taste – she grabs the nearest items of clothing, which happen to be his shirt and her lacy knickers, which had somehow got hooked over her bedposts, puts them on and heads for the door.

 

It’s Jeremy, looking weak-willed and impatient as usual. He looks honestly very shocked to see Claire standing there dishevelled, still wearing last night’s makeup and dressed in another man’s t-shirt, which is not fair considering that he was sleeping with his secretary and no fewer than _three_ junior members of his department for the last third of their relationship. That was a leading factor in Claire breaking up with him, especially since she’d narrowly avoided catching chlamydia from the whole experience; she certainly hasn’t forgot about it.

 

Claire scowls, in an instant bad mood, and slams the door on him (which only makes her headache worse). Apparently he takes the hint, because there is no more doorbell ringing, and she goes straight back to David and descends on him for a kiss that manages to be satisfying despite tasting of stale alcohol and bad coffee.

 

“Mmm,” he says, eyes wide open and hands firmly parked on her hips. A distinctly silly smile comes over his face, and Claire resists the temptation to kiss the end of his nose. “You’re wearing my shirt. What was it?”

 

“Yes, I am. And it was an ex who won’t leave me alone.”

 

David frowns, and his hands – which are a bit cold, along with the whole strong, calloused, long-fingers thing, but she’s not telling _him_ that - slip under the t-shirt, stroking lazily over her skin. “Want me to get rid of him?”

 

 She smiles down at him. Excellent taste is not a strong enough expression; he’s only for the moment, but he’s gorgeous to look at and he seems to be a gentleman – well, insofar as anyone who acted like he did last night is a gentleman; Claire happens to think he was very gentlemanly, but Debrett’s would probably disagree. “I think he’s gone, actually.” Her head twinges, and she winces, putting a hand up to it.

 

“Hangover?” he says, with surprising sympathy.

 

She nods, and regrets it almost immediately. One of his hands goes to her forehead, fingers resting lightly on her throbbing temples. Her eyes flicker involuntarily shut.

 

“Get yourself an aspirin or something,” he recommends. “Want breakfast?”

 

“Yes,” she says, since the nod was so unsuccessful last time. “Shall we go out? Or I can cook?”

 

He grins. “Can you?”

 

“Not really,” she admits, making a face at him. “But toast and cereal aren’t beyond me. And I haven’t got any bacon in the house.”

 

“Okay. Out, then?”

 

“Yes.” She scrubs her eyes and tries to clear her aching head. There’s a spare toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet, if you’d like.”

 

“Please.” He lifts her off his lap and onto the bed almost effortlessly, and whisks his shirt off her before she quite knows what’s happening, making her squeak and instinctively cover her breasts before glaring at him.

 

He’s grinning down at her, stark naked and unselfconscious, and he waves his t-shirt illustratively. “I might want this back?”

 

She sniffs. “Pig.”

 

“Have it your own way,” he says equably, and wanders off in search of the bathroom and the toothbrush. Claire spares a moment to grin ridiculously widely, before ransacking her wardrobe for a comfortable pair of jeans and an equally comfortable t-shirt, which also, she happens to know, clings in a lot of very flattering places. Also a pair of clean knickers and a bra, because contrary to appearances, she does have some standards. She picks up a glass of water and heads for the bathroom, just as David is coming out of it, carrying the spare toothbrush with toothpaste on it, and dodges him awkwardly, blushing slightly even though he’s seen her naked and falling apart. It just feels odd, that’s all.

 

He doesn’t comment, and she downs a couple of paracetamol from the bathroom cabinet before wiping her makeup off, putting on some deodorant and splashing her face with water and brushing her teeth furiously hard, then changing into her clean clothes and yanking a brush through her hair. He likes it loose and messy, if last night is anything to go on. Well, he can just keep liking it like that.

 

She doesn’t glance at herself in the mirror, knows that if she makes any more of a fuss, this will be more than the no-strings twelve hours she wants it to be. David’s gorgeous, and that seems to apply to his personality too; but Claire isn’t interested in getting tied up in a new relationship, not when she’s just barely got shot of Jeremy. Instead, she breezes out of the bathroom, shoves her feet into a pair of flip-flops and scoops up her handbag, asking him if he’s ready to go. He is, lurking by her door fully dressed with his hands in his pockets and that crooked winning smile on his face that won her over so completely last night, and – yes. This is good, this is easy, this is everything Claire wants out of this encounter.

 

Breakfast is similarly great; relaxed, not too much talking but not strained, and Claire finds that she can make him laugh, and that he’s got a sharp tongue to go with his cold hands. He tells her stories about his friends, about his family, and she tells him about teacher training college and the school trip she shepherded to France, which – really, those sixteen-year-olds seemed to think she was _thick_.

 

“Or maybe they just mistook you for an adult,” he says cheekily, and she squawks at him and flicks him with her paper napkin, sending toast crumbs everywhere. They’ve both finished eating and it feels like they should be making a move to go, but she’s still enjoying herself and she doesn’t quite know how to draw it all to a satisfying close.

 

And then he frowns. “Look, Claire... um...”

 

Uncertainty doesn’t seem like him. “What?”

 

“I know you were probably expecting this to be a one-time thing, and so was I, but...”

 

She tilts her head to one side and folds her arms, frowning herself. Either his phrasing is poor or he’s being a creep, and she isn’t keen on either. “Spit it out.”

 

He takes a deep breath and scribbles his number down on the napkin she’d thrown at him. “I’d... look, I’d like to see you again some time. I mean. No strings. I’d make a shitty boyfriend for anyone, I’m never in the country for, you know, obvious reasons, I’m always getting nearly killed and I don’t anticipate I’ll get any better at avoiding it in the near future. But I like talking to you, I’ve enjoyed the time I’ve spent with you, and –”

 

“The sex was fantastic?” Claire fills in helpfully. She’s getting a bit closer to understanding where he’s coming from, she thinks. Provided that barmaid was right, that is – or she’s about to become an entry in his little black book. She should probably care more about that than she does, but she’s feeling reckless today – and hell, maybe she could use a little black book of her own.

 

David goes an adorable shade of pink, and on instinct she seizes her phone and takes a picture.

 

“Oi!”

 

“Tough, gorgeous,” she says easily, grabs the napkin and puts the number into her phone before she can change her mind. “What’s your last name?”

 

“Owen,” he says. “Yours?”

 

“Bradley,” she says, and texts him her full name. “There. Name and number.”

 

He fishes his phone out of his pocket, and she watches him for a moment before her phone buzzes and she looks down at the text on the screen. Imogene, in all capitals.

 

_FOUND H IN POLICE STATION IN BIRMINGHAM. HELP._

 

“Oh shit,” Claire says unthinkingly, and only realises a couple of beats later that David said the same thing at the same time. She glances at him questioningly.

 

“One of my friends has got himself into trouble,” David says apologetically, “I need to go and, um, sort him out.”

 

“Funny you should say that,” Claire says, and shows him the screen of her phone.

 

He laughs. “Well, Jon’s in Hereford, but close enough.”

 

They get up to go, and he kisses her quickly on the cheek. It makes her turn red, even though they were doing much filthier things last night.

 

“See you, Claire,” he says, and walks away.

 

“You too,” she says so quietly he won’t have heard her, and watches him go.

 

He has got a _very_ nice arse.

 

***

 

Claire gives Harriet and Imogene the details when they ask, but she doesn’t feel up to dissecting David; she’s not sure he deserves it, really. Anyway, Harriet’s story (which involves her own feather boa, someone else’s hen party, an entirely unrelated brawl and about a quart of flavoured vodka that Harriet swears she didn’t buy) is much more interesting: like all Harriet’s stories it makes Claire laugh and feel like the bottom has just dropped out of her stomach at the same time. For someone with blue hair, Harriet is remarkably chivalrous, and also remarkably naive.

 

Claire waves goodbye to Harriet on her train to Edinburgh with a hangover and good advice, and walks with Imogene to her station on the other side of London.

 

“You said Jeremy turned up,” Imogene comments suddenly, out of the blue.

 

“Yes,” Claire agrees.

 

“Awkward.”

 

“Not really,” Claire says, and smiles. “I didn’t even have to say anything.”

 

“And David didn’t make a fuss.”  


“God no.” Claire snorts. “He offered to throw him out.”

 

“Such a gentleman,” Imogene says dryly, and misses her train because she wants to know why Claire’s laughing so much.

 

***

After David, Claire feels free to start dating again. Like she’s climbed back on a horse after a bad fall, and it went brilliantly, so she feels safe to ride again.

 

At that thought, she almost inhales the cap on her biro, leading to an undignified choking noise and a ripple of laughter from her Year 12s, who are old enough to find it amusing when teachers almost kill themselves.

 

“Near-asphyxiation. Hilarious, guys,” she says drily. “Eyes on your _own_ work, Jennifer.”

 

Jennifer blushes, and goes back to her timed essay; Claire returns to her marking of umpteen GCSE practice papers, still grinning sideways at her own mental innuendo. David would probably find that funny, if he were here.

 

She worries for a bit that she’s comparing the guys she meets and talks to and flirts with to David, which isn’t really healthy, but then successfully relegates David to a warm memory at the back of her mind, someone like what she’s looking for, but not necessarily an exact template. He probably has all kinds of annoying habits she doesn’t know about. After all, she’s only spent twelve hours with him.

 

***

 

Jeremy calls. Most of the time she lets her phone ring and the call go to voicemail. Once he wakes her from where she’s unintentionally snoozing in the staffroom, slumped over her desk and sleeping over a pile of Year 10 vocab tests. Max, who teaches Additional Maths and is every bit as deranged as that implies, has probably already taken pictures.

 

“Huh? Uh. Claire’s phone, Claire speaking,” Claire says, rubbing the sleep and mascara from her eyes and thanking God she doesn’t have to teach again for another forty minutes.

 

“It’s me,” Jeremy says, “Jeremy.”

 

“Oh Jesus,” Claire says involuntarily, not feeling up to this discussion. “Jeremy, I’m at work. Please-”

 

“Sorry Claire. I didn’t realise. I’ll call again later.”

 

“-stop _calling_ me,” Claire snaps, but the line’s gone dead.

 

She drops her phone onto the desk, stares at it, and mumbles a swearword. This is getting creepy. He’s everywhere, all of a sudden. She’d thought he’d got the picture when she’d blocked him on Facebook and when she’d opened the door to him wearing another man’s shirt.

 

Police? Claire thinks for a minute, and then dismisses the idea.

 

But she does make a note to have his number blocked.

 

***

 

The bombings are frightening and she doesn’t know how to explain them to the children. The older kids are jittery, the younger ones terrified. They can’t keep anyone over the age of about twelve away from every school computer, so they have to tell them, and Claire gets no teaching done all day. She wouldn’t expect to, really, not this close to the summer holidays, but she usually manages to force some kind of French language film down their throats.

 

When all the parents have come to collect their children, some much earlier than usual, Claire leaves. She walks all the way home, one of the innumerable pedestrians on London’s streets, the pavements filled with people who no longer trust busses and Tubes.

 

It’s a beautiful walk. The sun is shining and the sky is blue, and Claire feels too numb to be tired.

 

She calls her parents to let them know she’s all right, rings Harriet and Imogene. Then she turns her phone off and makes a cup of tea and watches about ten episodes of The West Wing back to back. Her flat feels empty and cold and she’s hypersensitive to the fact that she’s alone. At some point, it occurs to her that she should probably go to bed.

 

She turns her phone back on, just to check. She’s missed eighteen calls, six from Jeremy, the rest from other assorted friends and family. There’s a text from David.

 

_Hoping you’re ok. Let me know when you get this._

 

 _I’m okay_ , she texts back. _Shocked but okay._

 

 _Look after yourself_ , the reply comes back in minutes.

 

 _Don’t worry I will_ , she types out, then actually does go to bed.

 

A couple of texts don’t mean anything, but they make her feel less isolated.

 

***

 

The staff party after school has broken up for the summer is always a great one. It ignores the fact that there’s work left to do – marking from the younger children’s last lessons, watching like a hawk while the older kids’ public exam results come out, assessing for re-marks, lesson plans and timetabling next term for whichever poor sod is doing the timetable. Claire pities them, and intends to stay as far away as she can from their hollow smile and grey-faced optimism that it can’t be as bad as it was last time. For now, she has time: time to call her parents and visit her brother, time to meet up with Harriet and Imogene, time to go on holiday.

 

And also time to recover from the staff party _hangover_. Claire’s spent more time out over the past three months than she had over the preceding six, but that was still an impressive party.

 

“Nngh,” Claire mutters to the ceiling, and propels herself out of bed and into a hot shower. Her head is pounding, but a couple of paracetamol swallowed with a gulp of water will clear that up. Apparently she had the sense to remove her makeup last night, but brushing her teeth and washing her face still makes her feel better. She grabs a pair of shorts and a t-shirt at random from her wardrobe, slings them and some clean underwear on, and drags a brush through her blonde hair, which seems more inclined to tangle than ever. Not for the first time, she wonders about cutting it. Not just to her shoulders, but really short. Something that could grow out over the summer if she doesn’t like it, but...

 

She fingers the thick, newly detangled curls, and wanders through to the kitchen to make coffee and toast – her stomach doesn’t feel quite so much like it’s going to rebel on her now. Breakfast finished (at the ripe hour of 11.30: Claire feels vaguely guilty and rebellious) she makes a call to the hairdresser who usually takes off her split ends every six months or so, and books an appointment for the next day. “Thursday,” he says cheerfully, “so it’s quiet,” and Claire nods and yawns.

 

She feels like having a lazy day today. She takes a book out to the local patch of grass and basks in mid-July sunlight, not getting much reading done, but still-

 

Her phone goes. She sighs shortly and grabs it without looking. “Fuck off, Jeremy.”

 

“It’s not Jeremy?” David says, sounding equal parts amused and confused. “Claire?”

 

Claire drops her phone and scrabbles frantically for it; she ends up talking into it upside-down. “Shit! Hello, David. Sorry, I’ve been having some trouble-”

 

“- with a guy called Jeremy,” David fills in helpfully.

 

Claire laughs awkwardly. “Yeah. Um. It’s really good to hear from you, how are you?”

 

“Oh, fine. Hey, listen, I’m free and in London right now. Do you want to get lunch?”

 

“Um – yeah. Yeah, that would be great, actually.” Claire sits up and runs a hand through her hair. “Did you have anywhere in mind?”

 

“No idea,” David says. “Shall we meet somewhere and sort of... see what we see?”

 

“Okay, fine by me,” Claire says.

 

They wind up meeting at the entrance to the Natural History Museum. David doesn’t know London very well, and it’s easy to find. They walk down into Knightsbridge towards Leicester Square and Chinatown, looking for a decent Chinese or just a café that isn’t ridiculously expensive purely because of its location. They get a bit lost (well, David doesn’t know where he’s going, and Claire – Claire’s not paying as much attention to where she’s putting her feet as she should be, and she blushes bright red when David has to physically prevent her from walking straight into traffic, partly because she’s embarrassed and partly because she forgot how strong his hands were) and wind up at a Café Rouge hard by Hyde Park, near the Albert Memorial. Claire blinks in surprise as she registers where they are, because that’s quite a long walk, but she hadn’t even noticed the distance. It’s easy to talk to David, so easy, and he _wants_ to talk, fills every small gap in the conversation eagerly, almost too chatty. He’s heavily tanned and he looks skinnier than he did before, and there’s a faint air of strain about him.

 

She wonders what’s happened to him, and then – as a motorcycle roars into life on the road outside without warning, and David straightens in his seat and glances round instinctively, focus switching completely in a matter of seconds – she shies away from the thought.

 

The waiter finally arrives, and she suspects that David still needs a moment – his lips have gone thin and his eyes are terribly focussed, tiny changes in his expression that she probably shouldn’t be automatically cataloguing - so she orders for both of them; it’s a good thing they’ve just been talking about what they want to eat. She looks back at David when the waiter’s gone, and sees that he’s back to normal.

 

He catches her watching him.

 

“All right?” she says, because something should be said.

 

He half-smiles back at her. “All right,” he says.

 

***

She only asks him if he wants to go to the cinema because nobody else will see _Dukes of Hazzard_ with her – mostly because it promises to be a terrible film, which it is. She only buys the tickets because it’s more convenient. He only picks up the tab for their takeaway afterwards to pay her back for the tickets. He only stays because it was originally part of the plan – trains to Hereford don’t run very late, apparently, and anyway, Claire would feel like a shit host if she just shovelled him onto one.

 

He only spends the night in her bed because she wants him there.

 

***

 

            Sometimes he calls her, and she calls him, when they’ve had lousy days. Her definition of a lousy day is when she catches a couple of her favourite bolshie little Year 11s smoking on school grounds and has to get them suspended, or when she has piles of marking to do and it’s just become apparent that half of it’s plagiarised from the other half, or when a boy in Year 9 ( _thirteen_ , Christ, so _young_ ) gets run over by a car and spends a week in intensive care before finally, quietly letting go. She doesn’t know what his definition of a lousy day is. She suspects she doesn’t want to know.

 

            It doesn’t matter. They talk about anything but what’s happened to them, her haircut – from the ends of her shoulderblades to her shoulders to her jaw, blonde curls standing out from her head like a totally undeserved halo - start conversations about football and bad movies and conspiracy theories and mad friends (Imogene proposed to Harriet the other day, and they both refuse to say if it’s a joke or not) and it feels better. She learns more about him than she realises in their long and rambling conversations, even though they talk about exactly nothing that matters. She learns, too, that she likes his voice, and his sense of humour.

 

            It happens maybe once or twice a month. Sometimes less, sometimes more. Claire doesn’t expect anything from it; she’s actually wondering what she’s got herself involved in and if it’s going to wind up hurting her.  She’s come down tentatively on the side of labelling it friends with benefits, and he seems to be okay with that. And she’s okay with it, too. So everything’s okay.

  
            Right?

 

***

 

            David basically disappears from her life over Christmas, which is not the biggest of her problems. Fucking _Jeremy_ is the biggest of her problems.

 

            He hand-delivers a Christmas card, a long-winded one full of mentions of how his family are sorry she won’t be there this Christmas, of how he misses her. He calls her again and again. She changes her number, he gets it off an old friend of hers who doesn’t know how it ended, who doesn’t know any better. Finally she goes to the police. They say they’ll keep an eye out and file a report, so there’s some kind of trail, something they can use in court if they have to, but there’s nothing much they can do.

 

            It’s been almost two years and the bastard won’t let go and she doesn’t know what to do, but she does know that whatever it is, she will do it herself.

 

            She comes back from the shops, just in time to catch him delivering a Christmas present.

 

            “Jeremy. How many times am I going to have to fucking _say_ it – _leave me alone_!”

 

            He jumps, startled. “God, _Claire_ –”

 

            “Don’t you _Claire_ me. Look, I’m not interested. We’re over! I have _someone else_. I’m in love with _someone else_. You’re a fucking creep, Jeremy Bowles, a useless arse who doesn’t know how to let go, and I am calling the police on you!”

 

            It feels good, to scream at the top of her lungs and let loose with some bad language. It feels better to call the police and watch Jeremy blanch at the idea that he might (will) get in trouble with the law. When she goes to bed that night she feels better, freer, than she has done for months. She gets on the phone and tells Harriet and Imogene all about it; they’re suitably congratulatory, and they don’t pass comment on the _I’m in love_ bit. That’s good, because, you know, it’s only her losing her rag. She’ll say almost anything when she’s angry, which is why she’s so careful to stay calm in the classroom.

 

            She slips into sleep with no cares or regrets.

 

***

 

            David reappears over New Year; they meet up for a coffee. He finishes his long before she does, and seems uncharacteristically nervous, tapping his feet and twitching his fingers.

 

            “Spit it out,” Claire says, thinking, _God, this is ominous_ , and wondering what he’s going to come out with now. Is he going to tell her that whatever they have is over, because he’s got someone else? She hopes not; the idea causes her more of a pang than she would have guessed it might before.

 

            He glances up at her and grins, then picks up the fancy biscotti that came with the coffee and bites it in half. Evidently he’s taking some time to get to the point.

 

            She leans back in her chair and rolls her eyes. “Da-vid.”

 

            “All right,” he says good-naturedly. “Am I that obvious? It’s – I have a favour to ask.”

 

            “Mm-hm,” she says, not actively worried, but mildly suspicious.

 

            “My brother. I mentioned him – Tim?”

 

            “Yes?”

 

            “He’s getting married in about three months’ time. Lovely woman, I like her a lot, obviously much too good for him.” His grin is now slightly strained. “He asked me if I was bringing a date. I wondered if you’d like to come?”

 

            Claire blinks, surprised, and makes some automatic calculations. March. It’s not a very busy month, as schoolwork goes. They should be heading towards the Easter holidays. She keeps a firm lid on the stunned part of herself that doesn’t quite understand how they got to this point, or why she likes it so much.

 

“Don’t – I mean, think about it,” David says hurriedly. “I completely understand if you’re busy, or anything. And you should know what you’re getting into. My family’s bonkers at the best of times, and they’re not getting married in church, Tim doesn’t want to and Janet’s not keen, so half the family has gone even more batshit at the very idea. Fuck knows what they’re going to be like on the day. I would understand if feeding your own feet to sharks appealed more.”

 

Claire feels her lips curling into a smile. “You have experience of exam boards, do you? And it sounds to me like you just need back-up. Are you scared of your Great-Aunt Dot, a great big tough guy like you?”

 

“Her name’s Mavis. And you haven’t _met_ her.” David shudders, but it’s just theatre; his eyes are bright and he’s relaxed again. “Will you?”

 

Claire chews a fingernail. “Let me know the dates? There’s an exchange trip around then, but if I can make it, yes, of course.”

 

***

           

            Claire can make it: it’s two weeks after the exchange. She’s had enough time to get the sheer exhaustion of dealing with twenty fourteen-year-olds bound and determined to find something in Normandy to run riot on out of her system, she’s hauled out a suitable dress and jacket and she’s found a really flamboyant flower clip in Accessorize that will not only do duty as a pretend-fascinator but keep her hair out of her face, so in terms of the practicalities of wedding-attendance she’s pretty much sorted. She’s also managed to thrash out the arrangements for the day with David, who can be really organised when he wants to: she’ll come up on the train that morning, he’ll pick her up and brief her on exactly how nuts everything’s gone, and they’ll head back to his parents’ house and join the wedding party there. For the evening, David’s booked a room at the hotel where the reception will be held; he says it’s going to end late, and he doesn’t want to drive drunk.

 

            She’s actually quite looking forward to spending a proper chunk of time with him, but she’s still nervous as fuck when she gets off the train and navigates her way out, weekend bag perched uncomfortably high on her shoulder and probably too heavy for health’s sake. She catches sight of him almost immediately, standing by the station exit; he smiles at her and pushes off from the wall, meeting her halfway.

 

            “Hi, Claire,” he says cheerfully, cunningly removing her bag from her grasp before she can really notice and kissing her chastely on the cheek. “Glad you could make it. How was the train?”

 

            “Fine. Not too crowded, actually. How was Great-Aunt Dot?”

 

            “Mavis,” David corrects, and winces as they walk briskly out to the car; David, who has apparently caught chivalry, opens her door for her before putting her weekend bag in the back seat and sliding into the driver’s seat himself. “Could be worse. Janet’s holed up with her bridesmaids and Tim’s best man has taken one for the team and engaged her in conversation, so it could really be a hell of a lot worse, but I warn you, she keeps bringing the talk round to what things were like in her day when England was a good Christian country whenever a fresh victim walks past, so... yeah.”

 

            “I’ll just hide behind you,” Claire tells him as brightly as she can, hiding the trepidation that’s been rising since the train pulled out of St Pancras, because she’s going to meet his family and they’re only really friends with benefits, even if the emphasis is sort of on the friends bit. “You look – pretty great, by the way.”

 

            She’d wondered if he was going to wear dress uniform. He isn’t: just a plain suit, a crisp white shirt and a tie, but he still looks – sort of well-turned out and neat, disciplined, and he fills out the suit alarmingly well, and Claire is not allowed to jump him before this evening, because it’s his brother’s wedding in approximately three hours and decorum is called for. Which is _not fair_.

 

            He’s pulling out onto the main road, so he’s got to keep his eyes on the traffic, but he’s smiling anyway. “Thanks. You too.” He glances over at her when an inconveniently positioned traffic light turns red and they have to come to a halt, and gives her a very deliberate once-over, finishing with the kind of smile that’s murder on her self-control. “I like the dress.”

 

            “Thanks,” Claire says, slightly breathlessly.

 

            “Looking forward to taking it off you,” he grins.

 

            She smacks him. “Oi!”

 

            “Watch it!” David pretends to swerve towards the pavement, laughing, but his hands were rock-steady all the time. It would take more than a slap from her to make him budge.

 

            Claire sniffs, and sits back in her seat. “Later. Your brother’s wedding first, remember? You don’t want to get busted for shagging your...”

 

            She hits an unexpected stumbling block.

 

            “Date?” David fills in helpfully.

 

            “Are we going out now?” Claire blurts, swears, and slaps a hand over her face. She sounds like one of her Year 9s, desperate for validation – and she isn’t, she isn’t, she _isn’t_ , she just likes him and she wants to know where she stands, which she does know, of course, they’re just friends who sometimes have sex – _why_ did she say that?  _Try to keep your big mouth **shut** if you can, Bradley, you know bullshit only comes out when you open it._

 

            David stamps on the brakes, ostensibly to avoid an unusually kamikaze cat, but probably also for the relief of his feelings. He casts a sideways glance at her, worried and shy-seeming. It’s strangely endearing, on such a physically imposing man; _he’s a complete softie_ , she’d assured Imogene once, _looks like an Alsatian and acts like a puppy_ – comfortable with his size and his strength, intimidating-looking, but made of caramel, melting at a touch. “It’s... God, Claire. Yes, if you want?”

 

            Claire bites the end of her tongue hard enough to draw blood, and instantly regrets it. “Is that ‘Yes, if you want, because I want out of this conversation’, or is it ‘Yes, if you want, I was sort of hoping you’d come to that conclusion yourself’?”

 

            David stalls the car and has to restart the engine. “... the second one.” He looks horribly guilty and somewhat trapped, which is understandable, considering he’s stuck in a car with the woman he’s been alternately sleeping with and confiding in for a year, who he’s about to spend a day and a night with at a big family event that already promises to be excruciating, and she’s just brought up a really awkward point. “I know we said no strings. But things sort of...”  


            “Changed,” Claire supplies. “Well, yeah, David – it was a year ago, when we said that. Just about, anyway. And. I mean. There were other people at first, I was _trying_ to date, but they didn’t work out. I got sick of them, or it... didn’t fit. And you’re still here, and I still want you around,” she finishes awkwardly, and stares down at her hands, clasped tightly together in her lap. “So... we could try?”

 

            He reaches over, and takes her hand, and holds onto it until he has to change gear. “Yes? Please?”

 

            The hopeful note in his voice breaks her resolve. “Fuck yes,” she says, and leans across the gearstick to kiss him. (He’s in the Special Forces. He can cope.)

 

            (Except they almost hit a lamp-post and they do rip a tyre on the pavement, so maybe he can’t.)

 

***

 

            “So,” Harriet says at brunch six weeks later, leaning back in her chair and cupping her cappuccino in strangely elegant hands. “How are your men, Claire?”

 

            “Man, singular,” Claire corrects slightly petulantly, but her face softens as she chases the last crumbs of her croissant around her plate.

 

            “Ooh,” Imogene says, sitting straight upright and pushing her sunglasses back onto the top of her head, gossip apparently curing her hangover in one fell swoop. “You finally found a keeper? The single men of London haven’t let you down, for once?”

 

            “Actually,” Claire murmurs, “I think I’ve had a keeper on my hands since last _February_ ,” and Harriet screeches. The waiter gives them a foul glare and Imogene cringes.

 

            “Harriet darling,” Imogene says feebly, but Harriet’s already off.

 

            “ _David_? _Friends with benefits_ David? Claire Bradley, you sneaky thing, what the fuck have you been up to?”

 

            “Oh shut up, Harriet,” Claire says, turning a bit pink, but amused, not embarrassed. Her phone buzzes in her pocket, and she fishes it out and smiles to herself. David had left a note when he’d got up and left at five o’clock that morning; this is probably in case she missed it. _Had a great time yesterday_ , the text says. _Missing you already_.

 

            “Is it from him?” Imogene says, sounding vaguely scandalised for some reason. “Claire, are you serious about this?”

 

            “Oh God, she is,” Harriet says gleefully. “Look at her happy little _face_. Claire, you are such a sap.”

 

            Claire wrenches her eyes away from her phone. “Fuck it, so what if I am?”


End file.
